I sought the orchard, driven to its shelter by the wind, which all
day had blown strong and full from the south, without, however,
bringing a speck of rain. Instead of subsiding as night drew on, it
seemed to augment its rush and deepen its roar: the trees blew
steadfastly one way, never writhing round, and scarcely tossing back
their boughs once in an hour; so continuous was the strain bending
their branchy heads northward--the clouds drifted from pole to pole,
fast following, mass on mass: no glimpse of blue sky had been
visible that July day.
It was not without a certain wild pleasure I ran before the wind,
delivering my trouble of mind to the measureless air-torrent
thundering through space. Descending the laurel walk, I faced the
wreck of the chestnut-tree; it stood up black and riven: the trunk,
split down the centre, gasped ghastly. The cloven halves were not
broken from each other, for the firm base and strong roots kept them
unsundered below; though community of vitality was destroyed--the
sap could flow no more: their great boughs on each side were dead,
and next winter's tempests would be sure to fell one or both to
earth: as yet, however, they might be said to form one tree--a
ruin, but an entire ruin.
"You did right to hold fast to each other," I said: as if the
monster-splinters were living things, and could hear me. "I think,
scathed as you look, and charred and scorched, there must be a
little sense of life in you yet, rising out of that adhesion at the
faithful, honest roots: you will never have green leaves more--
never more see birds making nests and singing idyls in your boughs;
the time of pleasure and love is over with you: but you are not
desolate: each of you has a comrade to sympathise with him in his
decay." As I looked up at them, the moon appeared momentarily in
that part of the sky which filled their fissure; her disk was blood-
red and half overcast; she seemed to throw on me one bewildered,
dreary glance, and buried herself again instantly in the deep drift
of cloud. The wind fell, for a second, round Thornfield; but far
away over wood and water, poured a wild, melancholy wail: it was
sad to listen to, and I ran off again.
Here and there I strayed through the orchard, gathered up the apples
with which the grass round the tree roots was thickly strewn; then I
employed myself in dividing the ripe from the unripe; I carried them
into the house and put them away in the store-room. Then I repaired
to the library to ascertain whether the fire was lit, for, though
summer, I knew on such a gloomy evening Mr. Rochester would like to
see a cheerful hearth when he came in: yes, the fire had been
kindled some time, and burnt well. I placed his arm-chair by the
chimney-corner: I wheeled the table near it: I let down the
curtain, and had the candles brought in ready for lighting. More
restless than ever, when I had completed these arrangements I could
not sit still, nor even remain in the house: a little time-piece in
the room and the old clock in the hall simultaneously struck ten.